


Her Necromancer

by melodies_from_beyond



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Closets, F/F, Fingerfucking, First Time, Fluff and Smut, I just want my baby harrow to be happy, harrow is secretly a softie for griddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:15:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27857426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodies_from_beyond/pseuds/melodies_from_beyond
Summary: Gideon decides it's finally time to go riffling through Harrow's things and tamper with her blouse buttons..... until she finds a surprise even better than that.
Relationships: Gideon Nav & Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	Her Necromancer

Gideon waited in her nest of blankets as the room grew light again, listening to Harrowhark shuffle about in the neighboring room. Today was the day. Once that bitchy little stick of a necromancer left to go whatever the hell she did these days, Gideon would creep into her (or more accurately, what was supposed to be their) room and finally carry out her plan. 

She relished the thought of plopping her filth-encrusted boots on the foot of Harrow’s unmade bed, riffling through all of Harrow’s things and then inviting herself into Harrow’s closet and buttoning all of those tiny little blouses the wrong way, each side off by one button. For someone as utilitarian as Harrow, that was sure to be a nightmare.

The hushed voices of the waves below their wing whispered in hushed tones up to the heavy cloud cover above, momentarily drowning out the sounds drifting from the other girl's room. Gideon turned onto her other side in impatience. Well, at least she was warm. There was something to be said for that. And the fact that she had the opportunity to screw with Harrow in the first place. 

Back on their home planet, the best chance Gideon would've ever got to humiliate the puny necromancer would be something silly like step on her heels or step on the trailing hem of her robes to make her stumble. Both of those things would’ve ended up with Gideon on the ground with a million skeletons holding her down as Harrow stepped on her face. Which wouldn’t have done any permanent damage anyway given how skinny the other girl was.

The soft muffled noise of a door closing gave Gideon the signal she needed. She waited another few minutes in her nest before tossing the musty blanket away from herself and rising. She dressed in a hurry, her body vibrating in anticipation. 'I’m finally going to do it. Watch out, you weird bratty little bitch.' A smug grin crept onto Gideon’s face. This time she decided to forgo the face paint entirely, as an extra fuck-you to Harrow on top of messing with her things. 

Rain started to fall lightly as Gideon exited her room, creating a faintly annoying ambiance. She gently opened Harrow’s door, not wanting to leave behind any really obvious evidence that she was the culprit, even though she knew Harrow would immediately suspect her as the culprit anyway. 

Once she stuck her head in and found a negative for any traces of that breathing waste of space, she slipped inside and stealthily shut the door. 

The room looked exactly as it was when they first arrived, but Gideon knew that the wardrobe was full of cloaks and depressingly shapeless clothes and probably even more depressingly boring old pieces of crap Harrow couldn’t leave their depressingly boring old home with. After a closer inspection around the lavishly furnished room, Gideon decided to start with the bedside drawer. Inside she found a tangle of prayer bones, dozens of strands knotted up in a heap. 'That’s boring', Gideon thought, rolling her eyes, 'and thoroughly useless.' She shut the drawer and it closed with a satisfying thunk. 

The next two drawers were even less interesting, the middle one full of irritatingly neat rows of clean brushes (So that’s how she gets her face paint so precise every time,) and the bottom was half-full of tiny lacy bras and even tinier panties. 

Now, this was getting interesting. Who would’ve thought that Harrowhark Nonagesimus’ parents would let her have those?

But wait, they’re dead, so Harrow could wear whatever the hell she wanted under her robes. 

The sight of the suspiciously sexy undergarments left Gideon with flushed cheeks and unwilling mental images of Harrow slinking around in that lacy underwear, temping Gideon closer so she could kick her ass even harder than ever. Or, even worse, of Harrow spread out on that great bed, heavy lashes low over her black eyes, waiting. Or, the absolute nastiest (or best?) thought of all: Harrow fully nude, scrawny limbs removing the insubstantial strips of material right before Gideon’s disbelieving eyes. 

Gideon wasn’t so sure how she felt about that last one. Harrow in her birthday suit would mean one of two things: a) Gideon is stuck with a really fucking annoying fevre and is dreaming about the worst things her brain can concoct to spite her, or b) Harrow has a plan, and it involves Gideon all the way at the bottom of the ocean below with fish picking at her toes when it is all finished. 

So Gideon continued on with her lovely, nefarious plan. She unlaced her steel-toed boots and set them right in the centre of the bed, just as planned. It felt immensely gratifying. Impulsively she grabbed them and moved them around like she was a young child again, leaving a beautiful mess of dusty boot-prints on that musty wrinkled duvet. Satisfied with her handiwork, she then made a beeline for the wardrobe, ready to wreck havoc on Harrow’s irritatingly neat rows of pre-buttoned-up blouses. After all, who buttons up every single damn button when it’s on a hanger, when you’d have to unbutton them all, every single damn button, and then re-button them all again after you put it on? 

It seemed like a colossal waste of time to Gideon.

But when Gideon threw open the carved doors of the wardrobe, she thought she knew what she was expecting to find, but she was horribly, horribly wrong.

Standing huddled down in between some cloaks was that skinny she-devil in the flesh. 

Harrowhark Nonagesimus glared at Gideon, black eyes alight with hatred, lips pinched like a shriveled up plum. Startled, Gideon tried to make her eyes look at anything but the pale figure of her necromancer, tried to make her arms move to shut the doors, tried as hard as she ever had in her life to return to her blanket nest and wake up with nothing but a really fucking nasty fevre. She tried, and she failed.

She failed miserably.

‘What the hell are you doing, Griddle?’ Nonagesimus spat. If looks could kill, Gideon would be roasting like a rat on a rotating spit. Or maybe she would’ve vaporized on the spot, leaving a fine powder of what was left of her bones behind for Harrow to turn into her personal skeleton slave, her undead service reserved for only the nastiest jobs of the Ninth. Although, as old and mysterious the ancient powers were, fortunately (for Gideon) they had not formulated an unsuspecting pervert-roasting algorithm at that time. 

As to what the hell Griddle was doing, she was staring. 

Badly. 

Her golden eyes were locked on Harrow’s bare chest, her ribs poking out like she was in the process of becoming one of her beloved undead. Harrow’s pale, blood-encrusted hands covered her breasts, although Gideon thought there probably wasn’t much to cover anyway, considering that most rats ate more in a day than Harrow ate in a week. 

Her eyes dropped lower to her necromancer’s pale hips, the iliac crests jutting out like handles, one on each side. A pair of those flimsy lacy panties covered the little triangle of flesh above her legs, which were all angles and lean bones. And yet, Harrow’s upper stomach pulsed rhythmically right underneath her ribs, a discomforting reminder that the scrawny little thing standing there was very, very real, and very, very pissed.

‘Go away, Griddle, or at least turn around and give me some fucking privacy.’ 

Gideon considered that as she continued to stare at where Harrowhark’s tits should be. She eventually decided to toy with her necromancer for a while before obliging, so Harrow would finally know what it felt like to be on the short end of the stick.

‘Nope.’ Gideon said, grinning like the idiot she was. She inched closer to Harrow, invading her personal space. Harrow’s eyes widened, going from the usual pissed at Gideon because she’s existing near her to pissed as all hell to really fucking angry. She wanted badly to slap Gideon, but that would mean moving a hand and exposing herself, so that wasn’t an option. And she was absolute in her decision not to turn her back on that damn cav. Nope. Not going to happen.

And then another weird thing happened. 

Gideon reached up towards the lean figure before her, hands acting on their own accord. She placed her hands on Harrow’s burning cheeks, thumbs brushing old flecks of mingled paint and blood from the corners of Harrowhark’s lips. 

The necromancer opened her mouth to say something nasty, but it was met by Gideon’s instead.

Gideon did not know what to expect anymore. 

She was kissing Harrowhark Nonagesimus. 

Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of the Ninth, Hater of All Longsword-Loving Griddles. 

And her lips were soft under all those thick layers of paint. 

Ridiculously soft. 

Unbelievably soft.

As she pulled away, Gideon peered at her necromancer in a new light. Her necromancer. After all, wasn’t that actually what she was? The necromancer belonging to her, to Gideon Nav of the Ninth? 

And, of course, she belonged to Harrow, the brave, protective cavalier to the delicate and precious necromancer. 

The thought was unbearably romantic.

She moved as if she were dreaming. Gideon’s trembling hands slowly caressed Harrow’s face, moving down to her fragile neck, her fingertips running over her protruding collarbones and the little spine bones on the back of her neck. Then they travelled over Harrow’s tiny arms, so thin Gideon’s fingers could nearly encircle them in her palms. She halted her hands there, and pulled her necromancer close, so Harrow’s head would lay tucked into the place between Gideon’s breasts, her chest against Gideon’s own. 

The shock of Harrow was immense. She was so warm, her naked little body blistering hot against Gideon’s arms and chest. Waves of desire began to uncurl from Gideon’s solar plexus, rippling through her body, a brilliant yearning for more. 

Her necromancer’s arms began to uncurl until her bruised palms rested on Gideon’s upper pectorals. They lingered there for what felt like a long time before they snaked under the hem of Gideon’s tunic, and then under her bandeau, stilling on her breasts. The newness of the experience made her nipples harden. Gideon suddenly hated that. Her body would betray her no more, she thought defiantly. 

But at the same time, she liked this new sensation. It was exciting. Exotic. And in its own way, even better than all the skin mags she’d ever masturbated to previously.

Harrowhark was real.

Gideon then lifted Harrow up, her small body weighing barely more than air, and brought her to the floor by the side of the bed, strategically placing her necromancer where she couldn’t cocoon herself up safely in a blanket. As she pulled back, settling down, she got to finally see Harrow’s bare chest. 

And what a wonderful sight that was.

She was actually rather well-endowed for one her size. If Harrowhark had a thing called body fat, she would have an arresting set of tits. (Or, what Gideon would consider an arresting set of tits.) But since Harrow was nearly as thin as one of her skeletons, her current state would do fine. And she wasn’t disappointing either, as she had beautiful little light pink nipples, not too big, nor too dark, and her breasts were perky and firm even without a bra.

Leaning in close, Gideon kissed her necromancer, first on the lips, with more tenderness than she thought she was capable of, then on Harrow’s ear, and then a trail down her throat, nipping at the thin alabaster skin as she went. Gideon’s allergies kicked up at this point, aggravated from inhaling too much of the dried paint mixed with old house dust. 

Harrow made soft little gasps as Gideon made her way down to the sternum, and then down further, to the soft curve of her necromancer’s breasts. As Gideon’s tongue brushed the tip of Harrow’s nipple, Harrow groaned in pleasure, her body starting to shake. She was reacting, all right. 

Gideon took the chance that opened in the form of Harrow’s spread legs. She scooted up close, so Harrow straddled her toned body. Once more her necromancer slid her hands up her belly, this time to explore her firm back muscles before creeping to the front again. Then she shoved down the bandeau, letting Gideon’s tits escape, exposed for those little bleeding hands to gently caress.

And then another chance came. ‘I thought you wanted me gone?’ Gideon teased as she stroked Harrow’s smooth skin, enjoying the necromancer’s tremors that she knew was a direct result of her fingertips on every inch of Harrow's sensitive flesh.

‘Not anymore,’ her necromancer sighed, her face peaceful, flushed lips devoid of paint and painfully tempting. The temptation was too strong, and Gideon gave in. A thought in the back of her head said, you’re not thinking straight, you haven’t bled in a while, but she ignored it. That was no longer of importance.

She had Harrow in her lap, right now, with those nimble hands on her face, those slender legs locked around her waist, and that gently trembling body in her arms. Now that Harrow didn’t want Gideon’s guts decorating her room, Gideon found that she was just an ordinary, if not extraordinarily thin, girl, one who was only a little younger than she.

One of Harrow’s hands began to stray; wandering to Gideon’s hips, and then under her waistband, and then on her ass cheek. 

Harrow had her own plans now, ones that consisted of undoing Gideon’s fly and reaching a hand down to the tender spot between Gideon’s legs.

Pleasure filled Gideon’s body, her muscles clenching and releasing as Harrow’s fingers caressed and traced patterns over the fresh canvas that was her tanned skin. She felt Harrow’s lips on her cheekbone, her lips, her jaw, her neck, and down, leaving lingering kisses on her breasts. 

And Harrow's fingers, oh, those little fingers. They'd already found Gideon's clit and stroked back and forth in a motion that spoke of hours preparing for this moment. The sensation caused Gideon's breath to hitch in her chest, sensing an orgasm just ahead, provided that Harrow kept working her magic - which she did, slipping two long fingers up inside her.

She stared straight into Harrow’s hungry eyes as her necromancer pressed her fingers up against her, in her, and she reached her climax. Gideon came with a soft little moan, triggered by her necromancer’s unexpected expertise, who was back to working little circles on her clit, endlessly.

Gideon relaxed into the flood of pleasure, and Harrow then withdrew her fingers, licked them clean of Gideon's fluids. She held her cavalier close, their bodies warm and soothing. 

To Gideon, the sensation of another body against her own was exquisite, better than any glossy cheap page of a dirty magazine. Vaguely, she felt her hair being petted as she slowly became drowsy.

Content, the Reverend Daughter hummed a set of soft low notes, one Gideon had never heard before, but it was beautiful, and she was okay, in Harrow’s gentle arms, and alive. Against the soothing sound of the rain Gideon wished she could be nowhere but here, in her necromancer’s arms, forever.


End file.
